At Charles de Gaulle airport Assem Graieb thinks about his meeting with Auguste in Zurich, and the man from the American intelligence agency who was with them: Dan Kovac. He remembers how the discussion started. “We’ve got a problem with one of our men,” said Kovac. Then he took out an envelope and showed them some photographs. Sullivan Sicoh. Forty-one years old. Former SEAL Team Six. One of McRogan’s men. “This photo was taken two days before he left on a mission to northern Afghanistan. Things didn’t go well there. He came back in smithereens . . . ” explained Dan Kovac. Assem looked calmly at Sullivan Sicoh’s face without speaking.
Sullivan enters the restaurant. He is one of the last ones and his friends shout for joy when they see him—the way they always do when one of them comes in. They hand him a glass and he drinks. In two days he’ll be leaving for Kalafgan but he hasn’t heard that name, yet, doesn’t know that it will be the name of his wound. All he knows is that he’s being sent to the Kunduz region in northern Afghanistan. Would he drink more if he knew that he will come close to losing his life? He listens to the jokes people make about him, answers back. He smiles, claps his palms together, gives hugs, takes a seat on the bench at the back and lets himself be submerged by the noise his friends are making, maybe they’re celebrating nothing other than the fact that they’re alive, and that’s fine by him, so he drinks, too, as much as the others and then some. Later, when everyone is there, when they’ve squeezed together as best they can around this table initially meant for eight, and they number at least twelve, one of them asks the restaurant owner to take their picture, as if to have proof that at that moment they are all alive. Men between the ages of thirty and forty, well built, who know how to keep a cool head, men who have killed, who have known fear, who are able to immerse themselves in the silence of action, but who just now want to laugh and forget. He can feel them shoving, to his right, to his left, someone putting a hand on his shoulder—everyone has to fit in the photo. He smiles, or at least thinks he’s smiling, but he doesn’t realize that he’s not.
Assem stares for a long time at the photograph. He has known so many men like this one: the impressive build, the face that is likeable even with an assault rifle in his hands. Of all the photographs, the one at the meal strikes him most: Sicoh is there amid all the others, all raising their glasses. It’s easy to imagine the corny jokes, the slaps on the back, the tales of feats of arms told over and over. But Sicoh isn’t smiling. He is staring at the camera lens with a strange depth to his gaze.
What isn’t visible in the photograph is the divorce that has just been finalized. Nor is his final visit to the house where he lived for fifteen years, or how he left through the back door, distraught, exhausted, not even sure himself whether to be devastated or relieved. What isn’t visible is the village of Kalafgan, waiting for him, with mothers on their knees, his body battered and dragged through the dust, saved at the last minute by the arrival of the helicopter. What isn’t visible in the photograph is the conviction that came over him during dinner, there amid his comrades’ somewhat forced laughter, that he will not end up just one more divorced soldier, patiently waiting his turn to see his son, organizing barbecues on Sundays to try and transform the time with his son into something festive, then seeing in the boy’s eyes that his barbecue is pathetic. What isn’t visible in the photograph is what has vanished. His buddies all around him, shouting and singing. It is no longer possible to speak. It doesn’t matter. He didn’t go there to talk. And even when the rowdiest among them have calmed down, even when there is a time for quieter conversations, in little groups, as they hand each other cigarettes out on the sidewalk and enjoy a bit of fresh air, he won’t say anything, won’t talk to anyone about his divorce, not that he’s ashamed or feels he has to hide anything, but because, already, he is no longer that man. Perhaps even then he senses that Kalafgan is waiting for him, and that this place will help him let his former self die.
At the airport Assem thinks of Dan Kovac’s voice as he was showing him the photograph. He explained that Sullivan Sicoh has disappeared. He has given no sign of life to anyone. His ex-wife did not seem to be in any hurry to have news of him. The Americans knew he was in Beirut. At that point Kovac took out another photograph. “This is the only recent photograph we have of him, taken three months ago,” he said. It showed a bearded man who didn’t look anything like the guy from Michigan with the thick hands and broad smile. He looked, rather, like the guru of some sect, or a prisoner on the run. He was crossing a street. He had lost weight and let his hair and beard grow. His nervous eyes were looking anxiously across at the other sidewalk. Dan Kovac began talking. He seemed embarrassed. He explained that the situation for them had become rather awkward. That Sullivan Sicoh was dealing in all sorts of trafficked goods, with all sorts of people. Artifacts stolen from archeological sites. Weapons, too . . . He said they needed to find out what was his true state of mind. Assem remembers clearly the words he used. “What is his true state of mind . . . ” And then Kovac added, “He’s from an elite unit. He was at Abbottabad in 2011. He’s a solid guy. And he knows an awful lot . . . ” Silence fell again. Assem tried to imagine the man, how he had been during the famous raid that had led to bin Laden’s death. He saw again the images of the raid on Abbottabad: helicopters attacking at night, the three shots fired at the Al-Qaeda leader, then the exfiltration . . . Auguste had to come out with his question, to ask explicitly what it was the Americans expected from their French counterparts, before Dan Kovac finally explained: “We’d be very grateful if you could get close to him and . . . assess him.” Assem looked up abruptly, surprised. Assess him? That’s not what he was used for, as a rule. The meeting was heading in a surprising direction; he asked why they hadn’t contacted the Brits, instead. Looking him straight in the eye, Kovac replied that the French were better at handling the Beirut sector, and above all, Sicoh would be more wary of a Brit. And then he added that he left it up to his judgment. The basic aim was to determine whether Sicoh could still be “rehabilitated.”
“And if he can’t?” asked Auguste.
The American paused for a moment.
“Then we would be very grateful if you would arrange to have him neutralized.”
Assem recalls that moment perfectly. The words are still echoing inside him. That is what awaits him. The people surrounding him in this terminal have no idea, but he is on the hunt. All around him there are families waiting for boarding to begin so they can get in line with their boarding passes in hand; there are businessmen typing hurriedly on their tablets. He has been sitting a little to one side in order to concentrate. He remembers perfectly the moment the man’s death was first mentioned. And then, as if to justify himself, Kovac looked apologetic, and continued.
“Sullivan has been seen in a number of spots in the Middle East. If his trafficking is limited to art, we are ready to forget about it, but we have to be sure of his state of mind. No one in the Agency wants him to start writing his memoirs, if you see what I mean . . . ”
Assem is about to board a plane for Beirut now, with the following mission: get close to a man who, from one day to the next, left everything behind; talk to him, get a good sense of who he is in order to determine whether he must be sentenced to death or can be rehabilitated. And there, in his seat at the airport, among all the men and women dragging their suitcases, each feeling a bit lonely in this suspended time, he wonders if they will do the same with him someday. He tries to imagine a contrite Auguste getting in touch with some friendly agency . . . Someday in a café, in Vienna or who knows where, will Auguste hand someone a photograph of him, Assem, and say, “We have a problem with Assem Graieb . . . ?”
“Have they seen the elephants?” Hannibal asks for the third time and the men around him hesitate: yes, they’ve seen them, it was impossible not to see them, but they don’t know if their answer will unleash their leader’s anger, or, on the contrary, make him smile. So they remain silent and look
down. Then finally a Numidian horseman sits up very straight on his horse and says, “Yes, Hannibal, they saw them.”
Hannibal gazes at the Rhône river behind him and the bodies scattered on the ground. The first of the Roman Empire’s dead lie there, helmets pierced, hands still clinging to their swords or their wounds, faces distorted by pain or frozen in stupor. It is hot. The month of August weighs on the riverbanks and makes the mosquitoes dance. The first battle against the Romans has just been fought. A skirmish more than a battle, but from now on Rome can no longer ignore the fact that the Barcids are marching toward her. The news will spread. The soldiers who retreated will tell what they saw. They will talk about the army made up of Iberians, Gauls, and Numidians. They will be questioned about the exact number of men in the enemy’s army, about the proportion of horsemen and foot soldiers. And above all, they will talk about the elephants . . . Hannibal smiles. The forty elephants he has brought with him will grow, will become enormous, bloodthirsty monsters. The stories will take form. There will no longer be forty elephants, but eighty, a hundred . . . And fear will spread all around. Yes, they have seen the elephants. And every passing day, from now on, will sap the Romans’ morale. They will be more and more afraid. Time will wear them down, the time this long march takes. The Alps are still far away. There may be other clashes, but Hannibal is in no hurry. He has to let the rumors precede him. Already, wherever he goes, people have let him through, they do not dare oppose his army, the likes of which they’ve never seen. Why should they? To be loyal to Rome? No. They have seen with Saguntum where loyalty to Rome can get you. So they have let Hannibal pass through their villages, their territory, they even fed them now and again and, when they saw the long column of forty elephants laden with parcels, weapons, and shields, they prayed to their gods that they would never have to fight any creatures like that. And they wondered: if these creatures were indeed as formidable as they seemed, would they see the fall of Rome in their lifetimes?
“Colonel?” A voice calling, somewhat timorous. He hears but cannot reply. His body won’t obey him. “Colonel?” He tries to hold out his hand to prop himself on the table, but it seems as if this hand is making a fool of him, and he slumps over. What did he expect? That all he had to do was leave Illinois and his father’s tannery, which is what he did, not even ten days after the fall of Fort Sumter, for a new life to begin? That all he had to do was put on his uniform, to be cleansed of his former self? That acting as a recruiter, which is what he has been doing for weeks, would eliminate the shame, banish his demons?
He keeps his eyes closed. The world around him is plunged in darkness. All that’s left is that voice. “Colonel . . . ?” He is dead drunk. Can’t they tell? The young man who just came through the door should stop being so solicitous, should go and get a bowl of water and splash it in his face, or else leave him where he is to sleep off his sadness, but just leave him alone! Yes he’s been drinking. Two whole bottles. Worth every drop. He has just heard that the Union army got trounced at Bull Run. And yet there were so many of them. General McDowell is useless. And Beauregard must have smiled again, the way he smiled at Fort Sumter. Bunch of imbeciles . . . They went to war the way you go to a parade. The Confederates have not made the same mistake. They know they can’t afford the luxury. Thomas Jackson’s Virginians came to fight, and they held their ground. That’s how the Yankees should have gone about it, with the deep conviction that defeat is out of the question. The land of the founding fathers cannot be divided. The shame will be theirs if they let the secession go through. The shame will be theirs if slavery is allowed to prosper. McDowell is useless. He wants to win his fine battles but that’s not what war is about. You have to win, period. Which means crushing the war itself, and that can only be done through violence. The Virginians have just taught them a lesson. They held on, with a rage to win. They stood their ground, until Beauregard ordered the counterattack and the Union ranks were routed. Apparently the ladies in Washington, sure of their victory, had come out in their fine carriages to watch the show, with cold chicken and refreshments. They must have wet themselves, stupid hens, cursing their own curiosity, when to everyone’s amazement Stonewall Jackson charged with his troops, mowing down everything in his way and driving the Yankees back. He ought to admire the Confederates’ determination. He ought to be glad of McDowell’s collapse, but there were youngsters who had died, and what was trampled on the battlefield was the abolition of slavery and the direction of History. A curse upon those men who don’t take war seriously. Yes, he’s been drinking. Because he has been thinking about them, all those young men who died in the space of just a few minutes, and for nothing, incredulous as they discovered that bullets really do whistle and will shatter their skulls on impact. “Colonel?” He hears the young man’s voice again and he wants to yell at him to get out, scram, leave him alone with his disgrace and his drunken self . . . He thought it would be enough to inform his wife that he was going to enlist for everything to go back to normal, but he still wants to drink, even if he can’t even stand up, he wants to drink because the Union forces have been routed, they’ve retreated in scattered companies, stunned, filthy with mud, leaving Sherman’s cannons behind with the cold chicken thighs, the picnic tablecloths, the Confederate cries of victory.
On the Maychew plain the Italians are awake. In response to the first shots, the first shells fall and Haile Selassie’s first soldiers die. The Italians have no reason to panic. They have built a wall of dried earth to protect their line, and they have allowed the Ethiopians to get closer. The day is slowly dawning. The plain will soon be covered in blood. The shells are falling steadily. This is how they will kill them, by scattering them, smashing them, blowing them to smithereens. The Ethiopian warriors’ triumphant victory at Adwa will not be seen again. Italy wants her revenge. That is precisely why she has come. And she will get it. What will Haile Selassie’s place be in History? That of a defeated emperor? The king of kings killed by the explosion of a shell? The battle is under way, and from now on the entire day will be devoted to slaughter. Advance. Shout to muster courage and moan when the bullet goes through you. Oh, what a long time a defeat takes . . . You have to live through it completely, right to the end, live through those moments when you still believe there’s a chance, and the calls for help you cannot answer, friends dying, then those magnificent breaches—and sometimes the sun, the beauty of your surroundings . . . It’s taking so long . . . The smell of blood and gunpowder is everywhere. And then, the day slowly starts to fade, after thirteen hours of battle where the Ethiopians, some of them bare-chested, have been charging at heavy machine guns. Seventy-five tons of explosives relentlessly blowing them to bits. Italy doesn’t matter. The Duce was categorical: he wants a brilliant victory, and a quick one. After thirteen hours of fighting he’s got it. And the Negus orders the withdrawal. But that is when the unthinkable happens. Because the defeat is hungry for more. The Italians leave their line and go after the enemy. Haile Selassie sees the brutal wave surging behind his men. Planes fly over the battlefield, strafing the fugitives. Gas burns those who try to run. Everything explodes, twists. It is no longer a withdrawal, it is a debacle, a massacre. They are annihilated. And on it goes. “There’s nothing we can do,” he thinks. He has offered his men up to this carnage. And then finally, with the sudden onset of night, the sky itself begins to thunder. A storm breaks, violent, terrifying. Lightning streaks the sky and whenever it does it reveals a host of moaning. The dying are there on the ground, on the battlefield, in the mud, stiff and cold or still moaning, their mouths open, they are astonished by this air that is killing them, they do not understand how this can be, and a hard rain falls, as if it were trying to drown everything. Perhaps the very sky is disgusted by what it has seen. Men go back for their dead but cannot find them; they grope about among an ocean of corpses. It’s all over. And the dying open their eyes wide to hear the roar of thunder one last time, to feel a little of the cool rain on lips that soon w
ill be cold.
He can hear teeth chattering all around him. The men are cold. Should he give up? No. He has to go on to the end. He clenches his jaw. His entire body is growing stiff on his horse. He is trembling in spite of the animal hides on his shoulders. Some of his best Numidian horsemen, feverish, their eyes yellow, their lips white, he can see them still clinging on but they are unsteady, and eventually they will fall and no one will be able to help them. They will die the way so many others have, there by the side of these stony paths, amid the first snows, they will be astonished to have it end like this, on the cold earth, so far away from home, without even having fought a battle. His army is melting in the snow. For ten days already they have been advancing, ruining their horses’ hooves, leaving the sick elephants behind, forcing their way through the mist on the summits. The local populace watch them go by and they spit on the ground or throw stones at them before skittering away down invisible trails. Should he give up and turn back? Can he return to Carthage and hand the power over to Hannon, the old family enemy who is just waiting for one mistake, one sign of weakness to take things in hand and seal a pact with the Romans? All around him men are dying. The biting cold allows them no respite. Every morning they tally the number of those who died in the night, every morning there are animals—horses, mules, elephants—that refuse to get up and the men have to remove their bundles and salvage what they can. He has heard the death rattle of men on horseback, seen them die as they sit in their saddles, as if frozen, until their mounts fall into the ravine. He has seen the elephants go mad from the pain and charge the men who have imposed this torture upon them, trampling those who might have survived, taking everything with them, their rage, their drivers, the clusters of dumbstruck soldiers. Half of the elephants have died. There are only twenty left. According to Mago, they will lose fifteen thousand men before they reach the other side of the Alps. And Rome must be smiling to see the mountains wearing her enemies down like this, starving them, making them shiver. Rome must be smiling, because the cold is destroying them. It has even begun to affect Hannibal himself. For the last few days he has only been able to see out of one eye. It got infected and he knows that if a fever takes hold he will be done for. It often seems to him that his horse is walking too close to the edge, that it will fall, but that is because he cannot see. He keeps going in spite of everything. If the mountains are to be his tomb, let them take him as he is, on horseback, his gaze toward Rome. Perhaps he is mad to have wanted to come this way. He is mad to have sentenced more than fifteen thousand of his men to death, to have thought they would find passes through this unfamiliar land, that the elephants would survive the cold wind from the glaciers. He is mad but so much the better, because it is madness that will be the cornerstone of his legend. And never mind if he has to sacrifice an eye to the mountains, never mind if half of his army melts away: if they make it over, well, then they will be truly terrifying.
Hear Our Defeats Page 4
